


break open the sky

by breadpoetsociety (orphan_account)



Series: storms of september [2]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Budding Love, Confessions, Depression, Drinking, Gen, Keith/Lance (Voltron) Angst, M/M, Self-Harm, another feeling fic, no plot really again, references to in the heights, someday they will be okay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-09
Updated: 2017-03-09
Packaged: 2018-10-01 13:10:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10190597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/breadpoetsociety
Summary: He watches the guiding light in Keith’s hand rise and fall and glow brighter with every breath and Keith isn’t even bothering to exhale out the window anymore and Lance only does in order to give his clouds caught in the trees some company, because he knows how it is to be alone.





	

**Author's Note:**

> title is taken from "different frequencies" by skyhill:
> 
> "Break open the sky,  
> Forcing up a black sunrise.  
> Break open the sky.  
> It's more than I can leave behind."

His text tone was fucking obnoxious. If it went off one more time, Lance was sure he would snap. After all, it’s the singular thing cutting through the deadness of his mind and he wished it would stop, cause christ, he’s not going to be answering his texts right now– and even if he did they wouldn’t ever stop. It is incessant and only stopped by the slam of a door.

He’s lying on his side on the linoleum of their kitchen floor, a handle of the world’s worst vodka in place of a teddy bear, and Lance couldn’t tell if he was spilling it on his face or if he was crying, or if it were rain, or Keith’s tears pelting down from above him when the pale moon of his face suddenly eclipsed the microwave light.

And Lance believes Keith should have given up a long time ago, and then Lance apologizes because he didn’t mean to say that out loud, and Keith forces Lance up and into his warm chest and he’s rubbing slow circles into Lance’s back, fingernails catching on the old fabric of his tank top. His chest rumbled. Breathing ebbed and flowed.

Lance realized he had been apologizing over and over again and he apologized for that too.

“You don’t smell like smoke,” Keith says. His hands have slowed, just tracing a single vertebra now rather than exploring up the spine. Lance had a desperate grip on Keith’s forearms now, thumbs reading scars like Braille.

Then Keith starts mumbling something about love and Lance closes his eyes so he doesn’t have to hear it. And he scrambles to back up and smacks his head against a cabinet and now it’s for sure his own tears and not vodka or Keith’s or rain from the dark moonless sky that somehow opened above their kitchen.

And Keith just screams that the shorts don’t cover anything, that he’s not wearing sleeves, that Keith sees it all and has always seen it all and why won’t you just accept the help that he wants to give you? And Lance spews out something about accepting love that he deserves, and it’s ineloquent and heavy on his tongue, and his nails can’t dig into the floor under him so he goes for something smoother and softer and his skin and his eyes are starting to burn and it’s all too much–

And he’s alone. And he’s staring at these freckles that make a perfect square on his tanned arm for god knows how long. And Keith finally comes back in the still-open front door and Lance realizes that there’s some blood on his shorts, and he says something about baking soda and vinegar, or just wearing red.

He asks if Keith called the police, and Keith said no. He asked where he went, then– and Keith slid a pack of Lance’s favorite smokes into the palm of his sweaty hand and said he would do anything to help, and if leaving you alone to this is what does then Keith can leave tomorrow but god, just be happy, Lance, because I love you.

He asks if he could sit here again, and Keith says no, the floor is uncomfortable, come to bed with me please and you can smoke out the window if you want, and what else can he do. Lance realized he was apologizing again, so much more than before, and this time Keith said thank you.

“De nada,” Lance said, and Keith asked him if he could teach him some Spanish tonight. Lance appreciated the change of subject, a change of pace, a comfort like the messy sheets of Keith’s bed or the cool stone of the windowsill.

“Calor,” Lance says and his fingertips barely feel the light of the cigarette, and Keith inhales what smoke doesn’t escape into the empty night sky. Perhaps it would get caught in the ink.

“Anoche,” and Lance realized too late that Keith had stolen a cigarette of his own, and he almost felt like himself again daring him to see who could smoke more faster, and his breath was shallower and he felt awake.

“Dolor,” Lance’s eyes were unfocused, and he was speaking with a determined force behind every syllable, and he hardly even cared what Keith was answering or if he was even answering at all because he knew the wonder of Keith’s mind and that it was all understood anyway.

“Llámame,” and he felt the stars calling to him even when he couldn’t see them tonight, felt the moon smiling down on him, or perhaps that was just the brightness of Keith’s eyes. Lance was glad that Keith couldn’t hide the pain in them very well.

“Azul,” Keith was tracing up his thigh again and brushing away the red pepper flakes and his nails scratched over the lines there again and again and Lance feels like he’s been here a thousand times, but that this time is the worst and the best, and he almost can’t breath again.

“Ámame,” But he watches the guiding light in Keith’s hand rise and fall and glow brighter with every breath and Keith isn’t even bothering to exhale out the window anymore and Lance only does in order to give his clouds caught in the trees some company, because he knows how it is to be alone.

“Love me,” Keith was loud enough for Lance to hear this time, voice like static in a glass box, cutting through the deadness of his mind.

“Perhaps I do,” Lance said.

The room was glowing a brilliant red. And words echoed around Lance’s head and Keith was smiling down at him so he was sure he was saying them aloud. Besamé, abrázame, ayúdame, prométeme, para siempre. And Lance had no idea when he had laid down into Keith, but he did know that Keith’s arms were what was keeping him afloat but also tied down, out of the frying pan, away from his smoky clouds.

Al amanecer, Keith whispered, like a prayer. At sunrise.

**Author's Note:**

> another day, another vent piece about anxiety and depression and smoking. thanks to skyhills "run with the hunted," lin manuel miranda's "in the heights," and the millennial shiro squad for inspiration and help. 
> 
> come hang out with me on tumblr @ breadpoetsociety and twitter @ breadpoetsociet


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